


Waking Up

by RedEris



Series: Mixed Gems [14]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 07:02:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14491431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/pseuds/RedEris
Summary: Written for the prompt Solas; leather. A scene from the very early days of Solas' return.





	Waking Up

He had been exhausted. There had been so many things to keep track of, and in the end it had all happened so fast. He had been rushed and terrified, grieving and elated, a multitude of curses ringing in his ears. He’d been too busy with the big things to give the little things their due. Dress it up however you like, the fact was that Solas hadn't planned well for this stage. 

The waking up--never his favorite thing. The wandering Dreamer tends to lose track of such petty physical realities as cold and thorns. He was remembering now, with a vengeance. 

He had had an agent place a stash of equipment at what would have been a comfortable three hour’s walk through the Ways. Now, with Felassan’s betrayal and the loss of the Eluvians, it would be...what? A week? Two?... before he could reach that ruin. The timing had been too tight to recover, and now he would have to improvise.

How his enemies (and there were so many) would crow to see him now. Strips of his shroud wrapped around his legs, tattered already from brambles and shrubs. The remainder was knotted around his shoulders against the cold, the ragged edge of the once-beautiful silk fraying. His feet, soft with disuse, were bruised and bloody. He had tried to transform to move faster and more comfortably, but been too weak. Too weak, because of his own creation.

Everything was wrong.

On the fifth night, he dreamt the little dreams of a trapper, alone in the wilderness. The next day, he was not too proud to shift northward for a few hours to the man’s little hut in a clearing. He took a side of supple hart hide and a wolf skin with the fur still on. The trapper never knew he was there, so preoccupied was he by his tiny life, patiently defleshing another stretched hide. Solas spent the afternoon making himself a rough pair of ghillies, simple gathered moccasins, to protect his feet, and better wraps for his legs.

The next morning, he pinned the wolf pelt around his shoulders and set out again, head high, feeling much more himself.


End file.
